


Only Pari Loves Me

by Itsagoodthing (itzagoodthing)



Series: Out of Space and Time [5]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Crack Fic, Din and Pari are good parents, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Rherr is a bad role model, feel good feels, the kids are adorable together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:01:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27141460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itzagoodthing/pseuds/Itsagoodthing
Summary: Musings from an outside perspective of the family.
Relationships: Din Djarin/Pari Strart
Series: Out of Space and Time [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1769332
Comments: 11
Kudos: 35





	Only Pari Loves Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [POTFFAN](https://archiveofourown.org/users/POTFFAN/gifts).



> I'm honestly not sure where this came from. It was definitely an exercise in creative writing. Gifted to POTFFAN for their wonderful marshmallow anecdote! I hope you like it.

* * *

_Roughly six months post OOSAT…_

Pari is the only one around here who loves me. I know this because I hear her shouting things such as: 

_For the love of Mike! What exploded?_

_Haven't you people heard of covering your food?_

_No, Rherr, just because you stir up your spaghetti does not mean you don’t have to cover it._

_How in the name of Maker did liquid get under the glass plate but nowhere else?_

_Is that PLASTIC stuck to the side?_

_I know I'm not the only one seeing this... Wipe up your mess!_

And I admit that I agree with her a hundred percent.

As a microwave, I don’t ask for a lot. I don’t expect a lot. I sit in my designated alcove over the oven and mostly keep to myself. The only thing I ask is that you clean me if something splatters or spills and, _please,_ do not put anything metal in me. I’m allergic to metal; it’s a bad allergy. They don’t have an Epi-pen for it yet, and I could die.

This has been my home for ten years and throughout that time, there is one constant that I’ve come to depend on. Pari is the only one that loves me enough to keep me clean.

The others? Well, two of them are too young to hold to that responsibility, even though Pari keeps reminding Sash that the step stool by the windows is there for a reason. Of the other two, Din is somewhat responsible for the spills that happen on my glass plate. The splatters that dirty my walls and ceiling? Not so much.

Then, there is Rherr.

Let’s just say, if Riley knew what numbers were and knew how to use Sash’s step stool, I’d have better luck with the dog cleaning up after himself than I do with Rherr.

From what I’ve gauged over the years, he’s not lazy, and it does not appear that his inattention to the condition of my interior is intentional. He legitimately seems to be utterly oblivious to anything outside of the food he reheats.

This can be best demonstrated in a retelling of one of my favorite interactions between him and his sister, from which I secretly dubbed him, “The man who gets into trouble a lot.”

No matter how many times I remind them to put a napkin over their food, neither him nor Din—the man who frowns a lot—seem to hear me.

Come to think of it, the children never hear me either. Not when Sash warms up her macaroni and cheese, which to be fair, is mostly safe to do without a splatter cover. The slices of salami she likes to cook until they are practically charred with billowing smoke choking my interior, however...

And, while I’m on the topic, she definitely doesn’t hear me when I warn her and the baby against putting things in me that don't belong. Such as those colorful little marshmallow birds—but I’ll get back around to that in a bit.

So, yes. Pari, it seems, is the only one who can hear me. Or, perhaps, she’s the only one that cares enough to listen.

Back to Rherr and his undiagnosed case of selective blindness.

About a month ago was when the aforementioned incident happened. He set upon my rotating glass platter a plate of barbeque chicken, corn on the cob, and sautéed greens—with no splatter guard.

Fork stuck upside-down in his mouth, he shut my door and set his desired time. I had helpfully suggested two minutes (corn on the cob takes an unnaturally long time to reheat). Still, he had opted for a modest minute-thirty. His choice; I didn’t judge.

Let me pause here to ask: Have you ever experienced performance anxiety?

It’s where a being has a fear of failing a task before it has begun. They fear this possible failure might result in humiliation or rejection. It seems to be a common thing among some humans—or so I’ve been told by the water kettle over on the far counter.

As appliances, we do not seem to be afflicted with any form or variation of this condition. What a good thing that is too, because, just like the man who gets into trouble a lot, almost everyone who uses me stands around scrutinizing my performance while my timer counts down.

Well, back to Rherr and his plate of leftovers.

He’d been leaning against the counter behind him, scrubbing through Riley’s black and white fur as the dog sat beside him, waiting. The added attention wasn’t directed at me, and I felt no pressure to deliver any expected results.

However, I did wonder if the man who gets into trouble a lot felt the pressure as Riley sat at attention, waiting for any crumb that might fall from his plate. Maybe he did feel a bit of this pressure because when my timer went off, he gestured with an outstretched arm, pointing out of the room.

The dog looked up at him as if to ask if he were sure.

In reply, Rherr snapped his fingers as he pointed, and the dog left the room. He watched Riley go, and I assumed the dog had made a loop to come back because then Rherr looked around the corner, ordering, “Out.”

The dog did not return.

I can only assume the pressure to perform under Riley’s silent expectations had become too much for Rherr and that was why he had been so adamant about the dog leaving the room. You probably have to be human to understand, so I did not ponder further upon this as he reached over the stove and opened my door.

He poked at his food with the fork for a bit, touched it to test its warmth, then popped the upside-down fork back into his mouth and pulled out his plate. 

When he shut my door, Pari’s face was on the other side. Holding his plate, Rherr looked at her. 

The week prior, she had declared herself indefinitely on strike as the sole microwave cleaner. Now, standing there with hands on her hips, she accused, "You totally just saw the mess in there and ignored it. Doesn't it bother you to heat your food in a garbage can?"

Fork stuck in his mouth, Rherr just looked at her. Reaching up, she plucked it from his mouth, and he told her, "I didn't notice."

Rolling her eyes, she stabbed the fork into the chicken on his plate and walked away. She seemed to agree that Rherr was oblivious to anything but the food he was holding.

This theory was to be disproved by the man who frowns a lot sometime later as Pari’s brother stood there for an atypical moment, staring past his food to take in the state of my walls and ceiling. He closed my door and turned to walk away when Din’s voice rang in from off-scene.

“Freeze!”

Rherr froze.

Stepping into the kitchen, Din pointed at him. “You just looked at the mess in there and decided to leave it.”

Jutting a hip against the counter, Rherr narrowed his eyes, “And, how is it that _you_ know what it looks like in there, Din? Used it recently, have you?”

Din’s evasive reply was both swift and bold as he neither confirmed nor denied Rherr’s implication that he’d recently done the same (I assure you he had). “At least I know enough to cover my food.”

Rherr scoffed. “I cover my food...” Din quirked an eyebrow, and Rherr tacked on, “... when I remember.”

 _“Lek,_ well, do me a favor and give it a wipe-down once in a while? Because when people don’t, _I_ end up hearing all about it.”

I confirm this to be accurate.

Just last night, Pari went on a mini-rant over which one of them was worse, how many times she’s cleaned it over the past month, and how gross they all were. Din had tried to tame her temper by pulling her into a hug. She wound her arms around his waist without argument. Standing by the sink with him, she grumbled something about the animals under her care having better manners than the people she lived with.

Pari’s cleaning strike held out for another three days before she caved. If heaven consists of a washbasin with hot soapy water where friendly people scrub you down with a soft cloth, I would have thought that my magnetron tube had fried, and I’d ascended right there on the spot. Somewhere in the back of my circuit boards James Brown was belting out, _I Feel Good._

I remained clean for maybe another two weeks before, crumb by crumb, spot by spot, I began to revert to my previous state of disrepair.

A few days later is when the passive-aggressive conflict began. It has since been dubbed the Accusation Post-it War.

The first shot was fired by Pari while alone in the kitchen. Grabbing the stack of multi-colored sticky paper squares, she scribbled a note to the next user and then proceeded to slap it into place smack in the middle of the window on my door. I didn’t take offense to her harsh treatment of me. I both understood and shared in her frustration.

The note had read: “The microwave is sad and feels unloved. Clean. It.”

Rherr had been the next to respond with a risky three-word reply: “You clean it.”

The rest of the war happened as follows:

D: “I cleaned it last.”

P: “No... _I_ cleaned it last.”

R: "Are we really having an argument with Post-its?”

P: “Have you met us? Also, who reheated spaghetti without covering it—again?”

R: “...”

D: “...”— underneath were crayon scribbles from the baby.

P: “He’s trying to tell me something; I can feel it.”

No one had replied.

P: “Spaghetti mess—I want a name.”

D: “Rherr.”

R: _“Vod_. Really?”

D: _“Our survival is our strength.”_

R: “This is the Way.”

D: “This IS the Way.”

R: “Still, I demand proof.”

S: “It was _ba’vodu._ I saw him.”

R: _“Et tu, ad’ika?”_

P: “Lies will not be tolerated, _ori’vod._ When you sleep, know I'm coming for you.”

R: ╚(ಠ_ಠ)=┐

Pulling Rherr’s latest response from my door, Pari looked at it. Frowning at the pink square of sticky paper, Pari had turned and held it up to Din, “What is that supposed to be?”

He took it from her. Looking at the drawing of the unnamed character on the paper, Din handed it back. “It looks like a turkey doing Kung Fu.”

Pari had proceeded to dissolve into a proper fit of laughter. Thereupon, either the sound or the sight of it had the power to cause the man who frowns a lot to smile down at her. 

Din touched her back as she stumbled against him. Righting herself, she walked back up to me and smoothed Rherr’s doodle sticky back over my door. Then she turned back to Din. 

His hands had settled over her shoulders as she asked, “Hey, you know about Kung Fu?”

Looking down at her, he answered, “I didn’t use to.”

“But you do now.”

“Yes.”

Smiling, Pari had slid her hand around his back. “How?”

“I have been enlightened.”

“No, seriously. How?”

Turning, Din led them out of the room, “Patience, grasshopper.”

This behavior of questions and threats by note went on for a while longer as squares of colored sticky paper eventually took up my entire surface.

After the window became covered, the rest of my door turned into the next designated landing zone for their sentiments before encroaching onto my keypad. Even that didn’t stop them. They would just pull them off, choose their setting, start me up, and then press the squares back over the keypad.

Once every available inch of my vertical surface was taken up, the notes began to spread upward into a multi-colored halo around the cabinet encasement where I live. This behavior continued until Pari got tired of the hassle of using me and took them all down. She was smart to do it while it was just her and the baby home.

Later, Rherr came in and saw my clean surface. His face fell in disappointment. Walking past, he shot me a look, grumbling about Pari ruining all the fun.

Pari cleaned me that day. It felt great.

That great feeling would last for only two more days when, sometime after supper, the house was quiet as Sash and Umi crept into the kitchen. I’ve seen that look of inquisitive mischief on their faces more than once. Still, I greeted them.

What’s it going to be today, kids? Crayons? Styrofoam? A fork (please don’t let it be a fork)?

Neither answered as Sash told the baby to check the living room and make sure the coast was clear. Toddling off to look around the corner, he returned, and she asked, “Clear?”

Umi nodded in earnest, then scaled her side until he sat perched on her shoulder.

Sash opened my door and proceeded with the Cheese Stick Experiment. (The results didn’t go well, and I don’t recommend you try this at home.) Looking at the baby, Sash accepted the cheese stick still in its package and placed it on my glass plate.

Uh, kids...

I attempted to tell them what a bad idea it was, but they didn’t hear, like always.

Putting her step stool to good use, two sets of eyes and a set of ears slowly rose from below the viewing window in my door to watch. 

As I had predicted, it didn't go well.

**_BOOM!_ **

Din’s voice hollered from the bedroom: “What the hell was that!” and the children scattered.

Their parents came into the kitchen to locate the source behind both the noise and the peculiar odor of melted plastic wrapper.

Pari opened my door. Din rolled his eyes on a deep sigh as he turned and left the room. At first, I thought he’d just decided the situation utterly above his pay grade, but then returned a moment later. One hand on Sash’s shoulder, the other holding his son, he ushered the kids back to the scene of the crime.

It was interesting how they didn’t ask the kids if they knew what happened. Then again, after two other similar instances, one does establish a pattern. Looking at Sash, Pari had started the interrogation into the children’s emerging _modus operandi._

Her first question was simple and to the point.

 _“Why,_ Sash”

Doing her best to look innocent, Sash peered up at Pari and Din. Voice small, she admitted, “We wanted to see if it would get bigger.”

Umi signed, _Like the little birds._

Din’s eyes grew wide as he looked at his son, “You put _birds_ in the microwave?”

Sash put his fears to rest by answering, “Not real birds. Peeps.”

Din blinked.

Sash elaborated for him, “You know. Remember those pink and purple marshmallow ones?”

The shudder was apparent. “I remember them, yes.”

Sash grinned at his reaction as Pari interjected, “You put PEEPS in the microwave?”

Sash looked between them, “Not really...?”

Din shook his head, “How do you 'not really' put abnormally colored marshmallow birds in the microwave?”

Sash and the baby exchanged a look. 

Umi poked her.

Sash shook her head.

Din sighed.

Looking up at his _buir,_ Umi’s ears drooped. Forming the letter R, he tapped it over his heart.

_Rherr did._

Din clarified, “Rherr put them in the microwave.”

Eyes wide and innocent, the baby nodded, which had Pari responding with a sigh of her own, “Of course he did.”

By this point, Din was pinching the bridge of his nose. “I know I’m going to regret asking this but, _why?”_

The kids shared another look. Sash answered, “Peep Jousting.”

“Peep Jousting,” Din and Pari replied in tandem.

Sash nodded, “Yeah. He took two peeps and stuck a toothpick into the side of each one. Then he put them on a dinner plate, far away from each other, and put them in the microwave.”

Din and Pari looked at Umi as he added, _Rherr said the first to poke the other wins._

The room was quiet for a moment as Din and Pari looked at each other. Pari was quick to throw a hand over her mouth to hide her smile. 

Meanwhile, Din turned back at the children. “So, who won?”

_I did! They grew huge!_

While the enthusiastic little green child was unabashedly excited over the results of Peep Jousting, Sash had the foresight to look apologetic as she added, “We wanted to see if the cheese stick would grow too.”

Din and Pari shared a mutual sigh.

Rherr had the misfortune to step into the house at that moment. He looked at the focus group assembled in front of me.

Din threw a look at the other man, “How old are you?”

Closing the back door, Rherr walked into the kitchen, “That depends. What are we talking about?”

Pari had ordered all three kids to clean me that night. 

Later, attacking the melted wrapper on my walls with a spatula, Rherr looked between the kids, “You nuked it with the wrapper still on?”

Sash stopped scrubbing my glass plate and met his gaze. “Yeah.”

Rherr seemed to consider her answer, then muttered, “I wonder what would have happened with the wrapper off.”

Please don't.

Like all the other times, the man who gets into trouble a lot didn’t hear as he asked his _vodu’ade_ , “We got any more in the fridge?”

All I could do was brace for the inevitable. Watching the grown man peel the wrapper from the next experiment, I felt a little better over the fact that at least he seemed to have learned something by placing it on a plate. Then, he took it a step further by covering it with a generous piece of plastic wrap.

Huh. Perhaps I was wrong.

Perhaps, Pari isn’t the only one who loves me after all. 

_Fin._

_Mando'a_ Translations

ad'ika—little one

buir—father/mother

ba'vodu-uncle/aunt

lek—yeah

ori'vod—big brother

vod—brother/sister

vodu'ade—niece/nephew (plural)


End file.
